


ever-cold, ever-faithful

by rasenna



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Himling, Himring, Implied Maedhros, Implied Maglor, Major Original Character(s), Post-Canon, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 02:23:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9269453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasenna/pseuds/rasenna
Summary: Himring the Ever-Cold serves as a sanctuary for a red-haired commander one last time.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beleriandings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/gifts).



> I would like to thank Beleriandings for convincing me to post this, which has been lingering on my computer for absolutely ages. Also, I have only a vague understanding of how the British military worked during World War II, so please feel free to correct me. Enjoy!

_“_ Renwick says we’ve got incoming, sir,” says the lieutenant. “An hour out. Unfriendly.” 

Captain Louis Frailey nods. He knew this; their signal fire has to have alerted someone by now, and the chances of that someone being Allied are low. But he also knows that his men are all but defenseless. 

They have no ammunition left, no way of radioing home, very little food, and they have had the extraordinarily bad luck to have become stranded on this forgotten little island that only even shows up on the oldest of their maps.

It has no name on the map, and Frailey wonders why it isn’t better known; the castle is as magnificent — or was as magnificent — as many of the more famous old ruins in the Isles. Then he thinks of the sharp rocks, the unkind weather; and he understands anew. 

The island is desolate and rain-lashed, and the men wonder about ghosts; but in its way it is beautiful. The only structure on the tiny island is the castle, a crumbling but imposing ruin. Vines grow unstayed up the walls, curling thick into the gaps where windows once were. The carcass of the great hall, half of whose ceiling has rotted away or crumbled, is carpeted in wild grasses. In spring, it is likely a bounty of colorful flowers that contrast with the dour stone of the castle. 

However cold and crumbling it is, Frailey’s men are grateful for what shelter it provides. Some of the men have even begun to tell tales about the lords and ladies that must have walked that now-grassy floor or swept up and down the stairs or looked out from the remnants of the towers, to keep their thoughts occupied. Swanson, a lad who once planned to wield not a gun but a violin bow, has gotten out his notebook and begun to compose a little. 

 

Down in the hall where they have set up camp, Frailey strides over to the gathered men, who are eating dinner without a sound. Chatter normally fills the air, but tonight — tonight is pale and drawn faces, is thunder in the distance. 

He looks down at them for a moment, at the firelight playing on their faces, too young and too scared, and he sighs. “Lads,” he says. “No doubt you’ve heard the news.” They nod in silent unison. Frailey notices the notebook balanced opposite Swanson’s tin in his lap, the music notes slightly smeared with wet ink. He tries not to think about it.

“Listen —” He tries not to think, too, about the possiblity of whether they go home in silent boxes or in garlanded cars. That this might be the last mustering speech he gives his men. “— Oh, I’ve never been very good at giving speeches like this.” 

He breathes once in frustration; continues. “You’re all damn good men, and it’s really, truly been a pleasure serving with you so far. Whether we survive this night or not, I want you to remember that. We set out at the beginning of this war to get through it, and we’ve gotten through most of it. That’s actually —” He feels a brittle laugh begin to claw its way up his throat. He didn’t want to _do_ this; he’s not good at speaking, at leading men. Louis Frailey has only wanted to be an author since he heard a professor-author speak at university.

“That’s a good record, yeah?” finishes Timmins. “We’re just a bunch of blokes from some small Scottish town where my mum’s family’s lived since, well, practically forever.” There is nodded assent. “And hey, maybe the lord of the castle — maybe his ghost is still around here somewhere. Maybe he’ll protect us.” More murmurs of assent; Timmins is a good lad and a good speaker.

“Oh!” exclaims Yancey suddenly. “We meant to show you —” He picks up a canvas-wrapped bundle that lies next to him and holds it out. Frailey picks his way closer,pulls back the canvas. Steel winks up at him in the firelight, and he nearly gasps. Swords: three or four of them, with intricately worked sheaths and hilts that have somehow not decayed or lost their luster. Frailey knows that this should be impossible, given how long they have to have been here; and yet, when he moves forward and gingerly picks one up, it fails to crumble in his hands. 

“There’s an armory a few hallways back that way, and there’ much more where that came from. All kinds of weapons — swords, knives, maces; there’s even some bows, but those are mostly rotted away. And you can unsheathe it, by the way; we looked. It’s bizarre, but it’s perfectly all right. Brand new, almost.”

Frailey unsheathes the blade; the firelight along the steel — as Yancey said, almost new-seeming — looks like runnels of blood. Stepping back from the men, he gives a few experimental swings. He doesn’t know too much about swordcraft, but it feels _right_ somehow.

The men watch their captain in silence for a moment, and then Yancey says, “And look at the blade right there, near the guard. There’s a maker’s mark there, and we’ve found the same star everywhere else in the castle. Some kind of family symbol, we think.” Frailey brings the bright steel up to peer at it, and indeed there is a tiny star — eight-pointed, with eight rays between the points— etched into the metal.

As the star winks up at him, he feels almost — well. It’s a strange feeling, like someone on the other end of a very long tunnel is looking back at him. 

 

—

 

They damp the fires and take shelter in musty cellars and half-crumbled ground floor rooms holding their breath every time the drone of planes passes overhead. The rain does not let up, even though the cloud cover abates just enough to reveal a ghostly moon. 

Some of the men have taken more weapons from the armory. The blades will do them no good against bombs and aircraft guns. Still, as they sit fearfully, breath fanning out in clouds, the sheen of good steel balanced across their knees offers cold comfort. 

The last plane buzzes away like a dissatisfied carrion bird sometime after three a.m. About an hour after, the rain does stop, and the heavens part to reveal a glittering tapestry of stars. 

None of them sleep the remaining hours, however. The night is too cold and too fearful, and morning is not yet come. 

 

—

 

Dawn brings with it an unexpected but entirely welcome sound: the puttering whine of a fishing boat. 

As the relieved men pack up, Frailey takes one last stroll about the place. When he comes back to the great hall, empty now but for the remnants of the campfire, he thinks he sees — out of the corner of his eye — someone crouching and poking at the fire. Too translucent to be believable, out of the uniform of his company — he blinks.

The red-haired figure is gone.

 

—

 

When Frailey boards the boat, the first thing he asks the fisherman is the name of the island.

“ _Himling_ ,” says the old man. “There was a man, a singer, who used to come through town every midsummer when I was a boy — he told us all kinds of stories about it.” He coughs. “You know, he always told us the lord of the place was said to have red hair. Like you, laddie.”

Frailey turns to look back as the fisherman bends to man the tiller. Against the sunrise, the castle seems even lonelier than before, the jagged windows empty like the mouths of wailing mourners. 

As he gazes at the retreating island, he thinks he sees the phantasmic red-haired figure from earlier step out of a dark archway and lift a hand in a wave;  Frailey hesitantly lifts his own hand in return.

By the time the wind picks up and he’s forced to blink tears away, the figure is gone.

 


End file.
